A Taste for Nightshade

by Martine Bailey

  Jack crouched to look at the pool’s edge, where a mud bank was scrabbled with marks.

  ‘We should go back,’ he said. ‘Something drinks here.’

  She didn’t care. She was spellbound. ‘Look, a cave!’ Across the lagoon stood a dark entrance hung with pretty mosses, like a fairy grotto.

  ‘Just one peep,’ she whispered, for there was something powerful and secret about the place. ‘Then we can go back.’

  But Jack was still peering at the tracks around the water’s edge.

  ‘Whatever drinks here, it’s not here now. I dare you, Jack. A quick look around the cave and then we’ll be on our way.’ She had a notion, from some story or other, that caves were places where treasure was hidden; she reckoned pirates might have left jewels and plunder behind long ago.

  ‘It’s the end of the rainbow,’ she laughed. ‘Let’s find our crock of gold.’

  Jack hung back as they reached the cave mouth. ‘I don’t like it here.’ He grasped her arm and looked about the place. The water crashed endlessly beside them, so he had to shout. ‘I been thinking. That track was too narrow for a deer, or suchlike.’

  That excited her even more. There would be treasure, she was sure of it. She strode into the cave mouth, and the sudden chill made the hairs on her bare arms rise. Further in, it was pitchy dark, with no glinting gold to guide her way.

  ‘Wait.’ Jack pulled out their fire basket that held an ember inside dry fungus. After Jack had fashioned a rough torch, they both entered the cave. Disappointment met her, for it was as bare as a tomb.

  She pushed on deeper inside, more from vexation than any great hope. Jack followed her, his bush fire wavering and smoking.

  ‘That’s enough now,’ he kept saying. But still he followed her as she sallied on, silent and furious with disappointment. Finally she saw something against a far wall. Dark fruits they were; wrinkled globes, with fibrous leaves sprouting from their tops.

  ‘It’s a fruit store,’ she cried, happy at least to have discovered some new-fangled food. She grasped one, but it was that leathery to the touch she knew at once it wouldn’t make good eating. Jack approached her with the spluttering torch and held it up close. Her fingers had already probed its bumpy skin, and what she fancied were hard seeds growing from the bottom. Jack’s torch flared and shone on her find.

  It was a small, leathery head. A human head, with hard teeth, and a tuft of dry black hair. In front of them were dozens more; shrunken heads that bore savage patterns inked upon them, row on row of ungodly faces. The torch in Jack’s hand sizzled and died. She screamed like a stuck pig and dropped the shrivelled head on the floor. It thudded like a leather ball, then rolled a short way in the dust.

  ‘Quiet!’ Jack cried, pulling her away. ‘Stow it, let’s go.’ Like two blind men they groped their way back the way they had come, fearing to touch the walls, desperate for the light.

  They stumbled out of the cave mouth, blinking at the shining lagoon. On the other side of the water was the path back to their beach camp. And there, standing on the far side of the lagoon, stood three large and terrifying savages. Jack saw them first. He clapped a hand on her shoulder and shoved her back down, trying to push her back to the cave. An instant later a spear vibrated in the dust beside them.

  ‘Get in the water. Make for the path,’ Jack hissed. ‘Keep low!’ Another spear whistled above them – two of the savages were pelting towards them. She gaped at them. The black spirals covering their naked brown skin put her in mind of monstrous man-shaped lizards.

  ‘Bolt!’ Jack pushed her. She slithered out into the sunlight. On her belly she wriggled toward the water’s edge. At the sound of a war-like shriek she tumbled into the lagoon, landing in water and weed. Righting herself, she raised her eyes above the rushes. A spear-shaft trembled where she had lain a moment before.

  Jack was standing courageously at the cave mouth, his short knife raised in his hand. The two warriors were almost upon him, swinging polished stone cudgels.

  ‘Go!’ Jack shouted over his shoulder. But she was transfixed. A primitive emotion hammered in her veins. She, whose one rule was her own survival, could not leave Jack to die alone.

  Grasping the spear impaled in the riverbank, she hauled herself back onto dry land. The two attackers had slowed down a few paces from Jack. They made a recognisable sound: deep-throated, scornful laughter. Grasping the advantage, Jack bull-charged the larger man, driving his knife hard into his naked chest. Entirely surprised, the man rolled his eyes at the knife handle standing in his chest, staggered drunkenly, and fell like a logged tree to the ground. Jack’s second attacker gaped with surprise, then turned to Jack. She watched in disbelief as the savage lifted his club and swung it down hard onto Jack’s head. There was a sickening crack, and her precious Jack dropped to his knees. She ran to him, she couldn’t help herself. As he sank to the ground she threw herself onto him, trying to staunch the head wound that spurted warm crimson over her hands. His blue eyes blinked slowly, then fixed on the dust. In a moment they grew hazy as his life departed him. Her sweetheart, her true love, was dead.

  A mad ire boiled over in her veins. She stumbled to her feet and cursed Jack’s murderer with every oath under the sun. She jabbed at his chest with the spear as he danced backwards, laughing at her as if she were an angry gnat. Then, as if it were a jest, he grasped her hair, yanked her towards him and raised a hideous tooth-edged knife towards her throat. So here we go, she thought, reckoning she breathed her last. She screwed up her eyes and waited. She had faced death on the gallows and she was ready to do it again. Let it only be sharp, let it only be short, she prayed.

  A woman’s shriek cut the air; then the third of the party, a black-tressed woman, thrust her broad body between them. Before she could comprehend a thing, the woman swept off her feathery garment and threw it over Mary’s head. The next she knew, she was being bundled up and hauled away by her rescuer.

  She understood she was the woman’s property now, and had perforce to follow – but for the rest of her life she regretted looking backwards. Jack’s murderer dragged him up to kneeling by his beautiful golden hair, so that he looked almost alive. Then the tooth-edged weapon was raised, and, with the carelessness of a slaughterman, the warrior sliced through Jack’s fair neck. The native shrieked and howled as he raised his gory prize. Jack’s head swung crazily, his blue eyes blind, his severed neck streaming with gore.

  She hunched inside the canoe as they paddled at speed up the river. Her boiling fit of anger ended, her mind crumpled, ashen and empty. Jack was dead. The notion kept slapping her awake each time she sank into a half-swoon. Everything had happened so fast she couldn’t make sense of it. Only after a long time did she summon the courage to look about herself; and for the second time, she wished she had fallen in a fit or died rather than witness what she saw. Jack’s head was spiked on the prow of the canoe, his skin like candlewax, his eyes staring open.

  Groping in a fog, she reckoned her own life must be almost done with. Maybe they had to chop her own head off in some special place? Or maybe they made a greater spectacle of a woman’s execution? What if it was slow and long-drawn-out? She remembered the tooth-edged knife, the stone cudgel. Her teeth chattered, and her blood-stained hands dithered in her lap.

  The big woman in the feather cloak put a heavy hand on her arm and started jabbering in a strange lingo. Struggling to stir up the sluggish embers of her mind, she knew she must read this woman’s wishes or die. She had a broad and proud face, well used to command, her chin and lips deep-scored and dyed with strange designs. Her monstrous stone jewellery clanked as she moved close to Mary, waving her fingers in the air. ‘Tapoo,’ she said slowly, as if speaking to a child. Mary made an almighty effort to stop shaking. It took no great skill to comprehend that this woman was her lifeline, her one chance.

  ‘Tapoo,’ she echoed hoarsely. The woman smiled and patted her arm.

  After that she forced herself never to look at Jack’s dear face a
gain, though she fancied he must be watching her with mournful devotion. Her whole being was bent upon the savage woman and how she might ingratiate herself. After all, she told herself, though she had fallen into a den of devils, she wasn’t dead – not yet.

  ‘Peg?’

  She nearly jumped from her skin. Mrs Croxon was standing on the path, loaded up with her painting gear. Peg stood up too quickly and the flute fell to the ground.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ her mistress asked. She groped about for the flute, pulling it inside her apron. Then she sighed, and gave a sad little smile.

  ‘I had to take a moment’s rest,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m afraid our talk the other day left me very low-spirited, Mrs Croxon.’ She wiped her eyes that were dry of tears.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, Peg.’ Mrs Croxon came right up to her, and patted her arm. Peg struggled not to flinch; she didn’t care for such familiarity. ‘And I spoke harshly to you this morning, too.’

  Peg shook her head sadly. ‘So you should, mistress. I take too strong an interest in what you do, and I know it’s not right. Comes of having so little meself. You see I never had such a good mistress as you in all my time in service. I’d do anything to please you, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘Peg.’ Her mistress stared at her with helpless pity. ‘Come inside now, dear. Let us be friends again.’ She reached out her hand to lead her back to the house. ‘It will do you no good, sitting out here in the cold. Have you your – what was it you were holding?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I couldn’t help but notice. Is it a musical instrument of some sort? On a few occasions I’ve heard a quite haunting sound.’

  God damn her ears. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Is it Jack’s flute?’

  She nodded, affecting a sad countenance.

  ‘Would you like it included in your portrait? I fancy it’s like a mourning pendant or a lock of hair – an object that once belonged to a loved one.’

  ‘I never even thought of it.’ That was true, at least. And there was something to be said for having the flute in the picture.

  ‘Come along, then. Why don’t we finish the portrait now?’

  ‘Oh. I need to see how dinner is getting on.’

  ‘If you can sit for me now, bread and butter will suffice. I have ground the perfect lily green to colour your eyes. Don’t rush away, Peg. You need warmth and company. Take a rest, and the picture will be finished and ready by six o’clock when the master comes home.’

  So there she was again, whirligigged up into the mistress’s studio, Jack’s flute clutched to her bosom.

  ‘Today I’ll just do the new section – yes, your hand just as it was – and then tint it. This gives a lovely bloom to your skin; now it just needs a wash or two of colour.’

  She got out her pencil and started to sketch in the flute, peering hard at it with narrowed eyes.

  ‘What is it made of?’

  Peg shrugged helplessly.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Is it ivory? Do you mind my asking where Jack got it?’

  Keep your secrets hidden, she urged herself. ‘I don’t know. Never asked.’

  ‘Is it some sort of native handiwork?’

  Peg concentrated on keeping her pose nice and still. In spite of all the friendly sorry-saying, Mrs Croxon had a new bite to her. And that blue gown from York did look well on her tall frame. ‘Could be,’ she said, through barely parted lips.

  ‘I have an interest in such memento mori, as you may have noticed. I lost my mother when I was only a girl.’ She indicated the picture of the gawk-faced woman.

  When her mistress turned to it Peg yawned. It had to be all that fresh air.

  ‘And that was my first sweetheart; John Francis Rawdon.’ She wittered on about a local boy, who had gone and left her, all because of her father’s tyrannical manner.

  ‘He sailed away and left me, long since. Then when I was in York, who should seek me out but John Francis himself? He has finally come home to England.’

  Peg jolted to attention. What was that? This sweetheart fellow had been in York?

  ‘Of course, I told him I am married now.’

  ‘And most happily married, too,’ Peg broke in.

  ‘Naturally. But if John Francis had only called a year earlier—’ Mrs Croxon looked rather wistful.

  ‘Surely he cannot be so handsome a gentleman as the master?’

  ‘No, certainly not.’ Her laughter was gentle. ‘But first love …’ She raised her eyebrows and shook her head, all in a very good humour.

  Two men fussing over Grace Croxon? Who did her mistress think she was – the Queen of Bloody Hearts? True, her appearance was much improved, but only thanks to Peg’s directions. Peg struggled with her annoyance, striving to hold a smile.

  ‘Yet to lose your first love as you did, Peg.’ Her mistress’s long glance might have been kind, but to her, it felt withering. She couldn’t be quite sure of her mistress today. Was she dangling some sort of challenge before her?

  ‘My Jack would never have left me,’ she burst out, all at once. ‘He would have loved me till the world’s end. He swore it on a mighty oath. He would have married me, like that.’ She snapped her fingers. Then, recollecting herself, she shifted in her chair ‘Sorry, Mrs Croxon. All this talk of Jack has upset me – that is all.’

  Mrs Croxon said nothing. Finally she asked in a little voice, ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was killed. My Jack is dead.’

  ‘How? An accident?’

  ‘Worse than that. He were killed by a warrior on the island we were shipwrecked on. At least it were quick, though it was – shocking terrible.’

  ‘And you? How did you survive?’

  Peg was suddenly too weary to fashion anything new. ‘I was rescued by a native woman, of the name of Areki-Tapiru.’

  ‘Goodness.’

  ‘She saved my life.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I lived with them, I don’t know how long. Then, at last – well, my tribe did sometimes make exchanges with white traders.’

  ‘What sort of exchanges?’

  ‘They wanted muskets. And the white traders sometimes wanted hostages; a missionary’s daughter or suchlike. I wasn’t going to stay there all my life if I could help it. And then – I got back here.’

  ‘You should write all this down, Peg. It’s an extraordinary story. I don’t know how you bear it.’

  ‘Oh, I find the strength. I made a vow to get back home, and I’ve kept it.’

  ‘That’s good. And maybe, one day?’ She gave a silly little smile. What was it with the woman? Since she’d lost her maidenhead she thought of naught but tumbling.

  ‘Take another man? Never.’

  ‘You are still young.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ She didn’t feel young – she hadn’t felt young for years. Her best years had been wasted in grim endurance.

  ‘Let’s take a break before I make the final strokes. What do you think?’ Mrs Croxon propped up the portrait for her to see and stood back, looking pleased with herself.

  Peg’s first glance at the portrait left her dumbfounded. ‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Croxon. I don’t know.’

  ‘It is how I see you, Peg. Often the way we see ourselves is different from those who observe us.’

  As if she didn’t know that, she scoffed silently. That was her stock in trade.

  Mrs Croxon went to fetch some fresh colours. Once she was alone, Peg studied the portrait properly. She recognised her own flat, heart-shaped face raised to the beholder, her lips just parted, her features very handsome. But her mistress had captured a peculiar expression; she looked, for all the world, a lost and tragical woman. Her lovely eyes stared into a terrible past. As for her pitiful costume, it was the garb of a loser in life’s game of fortune. It was a cruel picture, and she hated it. Mrs Croxon’s eye was as sharp as a scalpel of truth that cut away layer after layer of humbug. It said without words the
question that flayed her alive: if she was so clever, why had she lost all she’d ever wanted?

  Mrs Croxon reappeared with a jug and a glass jar. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘You’ve got me all wrong,’ Peg said. ‘That’s never me.’

  23

  Delafosse Hall

  November 1792

  ∼ To Roast Bones ∼

  Have the bones neatly sawed into convenient sizes, and soak overnight in water until the blood ceases flowing. Place them upright in a deep dish, and bake for 2 hours. Clear the marrow from the bones after they are cooked with a marrow spoon; spread it over a slice of toast, and add a seasoning of pepper.

  As told by Nan Homefray, her best way

  I asked Peg to sit down again. I was stung by her attitude, and exceedingly eager to get the portrait finished. As I picked up my brushes, I felt sorry for Peg – sorry that I had dragged her up there and painted a portrait she didn’t like, and sorry too for all the blows life had dealt her. She seemed quite a different character from the excited fabulist of her first sitting. Was it any surprise I had painted her as a woman haunted by disappointment?

  Yet I still had a pinch of doubt about her story. In an atlas, I had confirmed that Cape Town and Rio de Janeiro did indeed lie on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean. Yet the heart of her tale was certainly true; that she had loved a man, and he had died. And now, by interpreting her essential character as tragic, I had upset her further. Poor Peg. I congratulated myself that I possessed so much that she would never have: a gentleman husband, wealth and rank. Life, I thought, is indeed a lottery. Save for the accident of her low birth, Peg might have been a person of fashion; a vibrant beauty, painted by an academician in oils.

  Intending to make a quick end to it, I started mixing the lily green I had made especially from crushed flowers, hoping exactly to tint her eyes, rattling my tiny brush in the jar. Then I subjected her to my closest gaze.